Untaming the Beast by Amelie Gray  THIRD PLACE
by The LUSTorium
Summary: She remembers a time when he would devour her, wild, hungry - wanting her. He doesn't seem to want her like that anymore. But tonight, she's going to change that.


**Picture Sinspiration**: 2

**Title of One-Shot: **

**Pairing:** Jasper/Bella

**POV: **Bella

**Rating: **M/NC-17

**Word Count: **2,675

**Summary and description: **She remembers a time when he would devour her, wild, hungry - wanting her. He doesn't seem to want her like that anymore. But tonight, she's going to change that

**This one-shot is being posted in participation with the above mentioned contest hosted by the Ladeez of the LUSTorium. Please see the****contest profile****for full details.****  
****http:/ www. fanfiction . net/u/ 2120160 **

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**Untaming the Beast**

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The prince transformed.

The fur of the wild man was trimmed away. He became thinner, more solemn. He no longer looked at her with desperate, hungry eyes – as though she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in the world, as though nothing else mattered but her, and him, and their existence of magic and books and midnight balls underneath the glistening stars.

He comes in late every night now. He doesn't kiss her awake anymore, doesn't even check to see if the fluttering eyelashes conceal a sharp gaze. Their life revolves around a mundane schedule.

Wake up.

Eat.

Kiss – a slight brush of lips, tentative nervous smiles, a single touch on her cheek as though any more pressure will break her in two, like a glass slipper falling against a staircase, like the cape slipping off the beast as he falls under the weight of a seemingly unrequited love.

She remembers a time when he would barely remember precautions, gnawing at her lips until they bled, throwing her down on velvet and black silk, ripping off clothes, snarling and growling against her skin. Harsh, needy, and wanting.

Wanting her.

He doesn't seem to want her like that anymore.

What bothers her the most is that she is used to it now, that she hovers around the apartment like an unwanted ghost from happier times, rearranging furniture, soaking tea bags and placing them over her eyes as though to ward off the worry lines forming around her eyes, her forehead.

Is this what a happy ending should be like?

A dream deferred, crusted over like a sugary sweet, sapped of the passion and need, and _love_, until nothing is left but a hollow shell of what was once a romance. Now, an existence.

Because that's what it is.

Not a marriage.

Not even a life.

Just a semblance of being, two shells of their former selves walking through the empty rooms, eating for nourishment, lying next to each other simply for comfort – to ignore the nagging wrongness between them, constantly dancing around each other, never touching the subject.

She still loves him – her tamed beast, her heart's desire, the one thing in the world for which everything else she would forfeit.

But sometimes, she wishes that she hadn't freed him from the curse.

She loves him.

But she loved him more as a beast.

Sometimes, like today, the late afternoon hours ticking away to the rhythm of a muted biological clock, she thinks of breaking free– yanking herself out of the straitlaced, chaste, presumed fairytale ending that her life's scribes seem to think is what she needs.

What she deserves.

She wants happiness, the feel of skin on skin, the smell of earth and trees and the warm sun on her hair as she runs, barefoot, laughing, completely giddy because she knows that he is behind her, fast and quiet on his feet like a wolf on the prowl, and even though she is running as fast as she can he is there now, grabbing her arm and tossing her down on the grass.

His prey.

Not his princess.

She doesn't want the corset of modern life to separate them, not any more.

She wants the enchantment of true love, without the shattering realization of marriage's first kiss.

And tonight, she knows that she is going to take it, do her best to reach the unattainable, reaching on her tiptoes for the highest star.

Maybe she will fall.

Maybe he won't be there to catch her in her desperation, clawing at memories, at a promised bond – forever – clawing for him, and the hands that used to span her waist and hold her to him, tight, harsh, like he never wanted to let her go.

There is a strange feeling stirring in her as she kneels before the drawers, pulling out remnants of a life she can barely remember. Snippets of a different world come to her – hands submerged in soapy water, the brush of salt-and-pepper stubble against her cheek, tucking the younger ones in and minding Stepmother's sharp looks of warning.

A boy.

A wild, grubby, fierce, burning boy who was spoken of but never seen.

And a yearning.

A yearning to touch him, feel him – and take him, take him away as her own.

And make him into a man.

It is ironic, that she should succeed in the task that she put before herself, and now so desperately try to undo her own handiwork, untangle the threads in a sequence that should have been a perfect formula, but isn't.

Not without the feral bite.

Not without the absolute rightness of doing wrong, of slipping into a man's bedchambers at midnight, at hiking up skirts and coy looks and turning against every rule of propriety.

Of being wild.

Her hands toss away handfuls of ribbons, silken garments and thin gowns – not the things she needs. Leather and lace have magic, but created by the hands of man – secondhand, weak, and diluted.

She is calling upon the heart of the beast, the wild child buried deep within.

So, she yanks off her clothes, rending them the way her lover's hands used to in the throes of his need, leaving the scraps forlorn and unwanted strewn across the floor. She exposes her flesh, pale now like the underside of a wolf's belly, vulnerable after days of being locked in a gilded cage.

The feeling of the stuffy air is unbearable. She tosses open the windows, letting in the light and the breeze and bird song. The sheets are yanked off the bed, thrown around the table like a red carpet leading to the throne of a queen.

Chairs are knocked over.

Paintings are turned upside down.

She arranges herself on the dining room table, a fallen angel in the midst of domestication's fall to desperate anarchy – a fertility goddess asserting her ancient power over Man and his modern philosophies.

And she waits, like every predator, for her prey to arrive.

He is early today, for some reason. The key fumbles in the lock amidst low, half-meant curses and the soft labored breathing of a creature eager for rest. His golden hair glistens in the sunlight, a weak reflection of his former self, forced into dress shirts and orderly conduct.

He doesn't even notice at first, placing his suitcase on the counter in his usual lazy habit, letting his heavy boots thump onto the glistening floor.

"Bella?" He calls, loudly, almost obnoxious in his hurry to answer the call for bare feet and lazy slumber. She half-smiles at this. There is still something stirring in him – something unruly, sullen.

This makes this easier for her.

And then, he half-turns, unbuttoning his shirt, and he sees the mess.

And he sees her.

She can't read his expression at first. Even all combed down and dressed up, the sight of him still makes her heart thump fast and her skin crawl and everything from her toes to her hair feel lit up, a forest ablaze with need and desire and absolutely knowing that this is forever.

Him and her.

The beast and his mistress.

"Jasper," she breathes, the confidence gone, the memories surging back of nights alone, of an invisible line between two cold bodies. "Welcome home."

He doesn't speak for a moment. And then, he turns away, shuffling and mumbling under his breath, yanking at his tie.

"W-what's all this, Bella?" He asks, not looking at her full on. That makes her shrink back, confused and hurt, not sure what to do now.

Has she gotten fat?

Is she no longer the willow-thin, barefoot girl who ran between the trees, the girl that he would follow without question in spite of his desires, his life…his freedom?

For a moment, her fingers twitch against her leg, reaching down for one of the sheets beneath her feet to cover up the tattered remains of her dignity, shuffle past him into their room, lock the door and have a good cry.

But then, she stops.

She looks at him defiantly. He's still glancing at her, up and down, from underneath his lashes.

And just like that, she is the conqueror again.

The seductress.

And she smiles.

"Do you like what you see, darling?" She says sweetly. "This is all for you. You've been working so hard recently, and I think that you've lost sight of the things that are more…important in life."

He turns his head away, swallows hard.

"I miss you," and her voice drops low, soft, vulnerable and weak in a way that she knows, beast or no beast, will sear his heart in a way that only she can. "I miss you, Jazz. I miss being able to look in your eyes and see _me_ in them. Is there…is there something wrong with me? Do you not want me anymore?"

As she hoped, he doesn't seem to notice her nakedness any more. The sheets and the furniture are only a background as he half-yanks her off the smooth wood, pulling her into his chest, letting her smell the cologne and shampoo that conceals his natural scent.

She hates it.

"Of course I want you," he whispers into her ear, exactly what she wanted him to say. "I always want you – too much."

"Then show me!" She grabs his large hands, letting them rest on her breasts, feeling a prick of triumph as his eyes widen, and then his lids slide halfway down, eyelashes fluttering against his pale cheek.

"Take me, Jasper," she whispers, low, soft, the voice of an enchantress weaving her spell. He is falling into it, she can tell by the lust in his eyes, the way he doesn't hesitate as he would usually. "Take me. Show me who I belong to. Make me feel like a woman again."

He leans closer. She holds her breath, willing for it to all fall silent – the buzz of the distant traffic, the slow steady tick of the clock behind him.

And then, he pulls back. In her frustration, she cannot even comprehend the mumbled excuses he gives her, the half-hearted "Please, sweetheart, not tonight".

If not tonight, then not ever.

She says this, out loud, and as though she has spoken an incantation, he freezes, half-bent over to gather up one of the rumpled sheets. For a moment, there is complete, absolute silence.

And then, he slowly raises himself up, his back arched like a cat.

His ire is raised.

The warmth in her belly is nearly forgotten, but very much welcome. Curled in anticipation, she waits, watching as he strides towards her slowly, deliberately.

When they are inches apart, faces inclined towards each other, she raises her hands, ready to sink them into the messy golden silk tumbling around his ears.

He catches them in his own, holding them above her head.

She didn't expect that.

But she isn't going to complain, not now when she can just taste the goal she has been reaching for.

"What – did – you – say?"

He pronounces slowly, his lips curling around the words.

She raises her chin, stares him in the eye defiantly.

"If not tonight, then not ever."

The dam bursts.

The spell sinks into its victim.

She is suddenly sprawled over the table, and his mouth is devouring her, hot and hungry and dominating. His tongue seems to be tasting her mouth, sampling the wine even as he pulls away and presses his nose to her neck, smelling the bouquet.

The fingers are claws against her flesh, biting in, breaking through and leaving long red scratches down her arms, her legs. Exultation rises through her. He is marking her, proving to them both that he still can call her his woman.

Like every beast, his pride has been insulted.

He is going to make her pay.

And she is going to enjoy every minute of it.

"Mine," he snarls against her skin. "Mine."

She doesn't challenge the title.

Not at all.

Instead, she slides her hands around his neck, fisting her hands into his hair – exactly how she wanted to before, how she's wanted to every night she's woken and seen him there, his back turned, his eyes closed. She grips him tightly, and kisses him as his fingers release her so they can scrabble at his shirt.

She helps after a moment, both of them twisting buttons, yanking a few off and leaving dangling threads. Neither of them care about the destruction they are leaving in their wake. There will be time later for the return of sanity, gentle touches and soft kisses.

This is about possession, and lust, and a flame that never went out, even if it flickered.

His shirt falls useless to the ground, and then he is pressing her backwards, and her eyes are rolling into the back of her head because the feeling of hot skin against skin is unbelievably familiar and needed. The edge of the table presses into her back – another bruise to be admired later, to treasure until it fades.

Right now, she is too busy fumbling with his fly, listening to his impatient grunts as her hand slips under the wrinkled fabric, wrapping around his cock with a sure grip. He moans low into her hair, sagging against her as she smiles, sliding up and down the way she knows he loves her to.

The way that drives him mad.

With a snarl, he moves out of her grasp, kicking off the pants and letting them land in a careless heap somewhere on the floor. There is nothing to be said, no foreplay needed to fire up the emotions already blazing through their bodies.

He needs her.

And she needs him.

In that moment, that is all that matters.

He grits his teeth as he holds her gaze, eyes smoldering as he pushes into her. She gasps, her fingers anchoring into the scarred skin of his shoulders. He has fought battles, retained marks too innumerable to count, and yet it seems to her that the feeling of her nails sinking into him, even as he presses deeper into her – connected, in more ways than they can imagine – makes his eyes just a little tighter, his posture a little more tense.

She has power over him.

She enjoys every second of it.

He snarls, "_Fuck, _Bella," and starts to move.

She is tight, and he stretches her nearly to the point of virginal ache, but she doesn't care. She lets her head loll back as he pulls out, and then shoves himself back into her, allowing the moans and grunts and pleas to flow like water from between her lips.

This is right.

Being here with him, fucking him on the center of their very expensive, very domestic dining table, is so right, for them, for their connection to each other; the simple need to be wild.

It doesn't last as long as she would've wanted. It has been too long since they've done this. He pushes back into her one more time, growls her name as he buries his face in her shoulder and her womb milks his warm seed. She hasn't come, not really, and there is an ache between her legs and maybe even a little blood, but for her it is enough for her beast-man to collapse on top of her, heavy and hot and comforting.

He strokes her hair and tells her that he loves her. She just smiles back, tired and worn and relieved to the point of tears.

Because she can see her in his eyes – the wonder, the adoration, the savage hunger just to be close to her, to press together until they meld into one body, one soul.

She sees the enchantment rekindled.

And that is enough for her to rest her head against his chest, knowing that the damage has been done, and there is nothing in the world she would do to reverse it.

He is her beast.

And she is his mistress.

Fairy tale endings are overrated.


End file.
